Chapter 3 - THE NOTEBOOK IN THE ATTIC
I refused to leave my farmhouse.
Dante argued.
I argued louder.
Eventually, he agreed to let me stay while additional security monitored the property from outside.
“Your men are not coming into my house,” I told him.
“Understood.”
“And they're not frightening my neighbors.”
“Understood.”
“And nobody touches my bees.”
Dante looked offended.
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Good.”
He studied me.
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Stop looking at me like I'm made of glass.”
His expression changed.
“I'm trying to keep you safe.”
“Then help me understand what's happening.”
He nodded.
That evening, we searched my father's old office.
It was a small room beside the kitchen.
Dusty shelves.
A broken desk lamp.
Boxes filled with receipts.
My father's handwriting covered everything.
Dante examined the files while I searched the drawers.
After an hour, I found a small leather notebook.
Its cover was stained with honey.
Inside were records of hive maintenance.
Dates.
Weather conditions.
Queen replacements.
But several entries were strange.
Hive 7 — keeper notified.
Hive 12 — six missing.
Hive 19 — move before winter.
I frowned.
My father had never used those numbers for his hives.
I showed Dante.
He read the entries.
His expression changed.
“Where did you find this?”
“Bottom drawer.”
He turned the pages.
Then stopped.
There was a sentence written in red ink.
If Emma asks, tell her the truth.
Below it was a name.
Dante Russo.
I stared at him.
“You knew about this?”
“No.”
“Then why is your name here?”
Dante shook his head.
“I don't know.”
For the first time, I believed him completely.
He looked as confused as I felt.
We continued searching.
Near midnight, I found a folded letter inside an old tax folder.
It was addressed to me.
My hands trembled.
I opened it.
My dearest Emma,
If you're reading this, then something has happened that I hoped would never happen.
I made mistakes before you were old enough to understand them.
I trusted people who didn't deserve it.
But everything I did afterward was meant to give you a safe life.
If the truth comes looking for you, remember that family is not always determined by blood.
Sometimes family is the person who chooses to protect you when doing so costs them everything.
Love, Dad.
I couldn't breathe.
Dante stood beside me.
“Emma?”
I shook my head.
“What does he mean?”
Dante looked at the letter.
His face changed.
I noticed immediately.
“You know.”
He remained silent.
My stomach dropped.
“Dante.”
He closed his eyes.
“There are things about your childhood that your father asked me to keep private.”
I stared at him.
“What things?”
“Emma—”
“Tell me.”
He looked at me.
May you like
And for the first time, the man everyone feared looked genuinely afraid.
“Your father wasn't your biological father.”
